Deadtime Stories
by Gypsy Rose2014
Summary: WARNING: Series 3 spoilers! After the wedding, Sherlock goes to the only place where he can find comfort- Bart's morgue. When Molly shows up, they begin a drunken game of "worst sex ever" stories. SHERLOLLY
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Time for another Sherlolly vignette! I was feeling so sad at the end of S3E2, that I had to do something to lighten the mood. I hope you like it. This one may have another chapter, depending on response. Anyway, here goes...**

Molly knew he'd be here. You don't hang out with Sherlock Holmes for long without picking up a few things. She'd watched him slip quietly away from the reception, across the lawn and into a cab like a cat burglar with a sweep of his coat and a trick of smoke and mirrors. He was theatrical, even when he was trying to go unnoticed. Molly knew it would come down to this when she'd watched him standing there, alone and awkward on the dance floor. She wanted to go to him then, but Tom was there. And Greg and Mrs. Hudson. All the people that were standing there with their expectant stares. But the fates finally smiled and just after they threw rice at the newlyweds, Tom got a migraine. The little Sherlock in her head whispered, _"His brain was probably just overheating."_ She sent him home in a cab on the pretense that she was going to stay and help clean up. As soon he was gone, she offered hugs to Greg and Mrs. Hudson, climbed in her car and drove to the one place that would offer Sherlock any comfort: Bart's morgue.

She crept inside, not wanting anyone to see her for fear that they'd assume she was there to work. As she passed by the administrative desk, she pressed a finger to her lips and the orderly nodded, letting her go unnoticed through the double doors that led into the morgue. All was dark and that was good. It meant that there hadn't been any murders or accidental deaths tonight. Of course, it was early yet. Relatively speaking.

"We really have to stop meeting like this." Sherlock's voice startled her. She switched on the tiny gooseneck lamp on her desk and there he was, lying on a gurney, his fingertips steepled under his chin. His overcoat, morning jacket and tie were tossed carelessly to the floor. "What are you doing here, Molly?"

"Came to see you," she replied simply, laying her own coat aside.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"I made a deduction." She ambled around the table and stood by where he lay. "Why are you laying on a gurney?"

"The drawers were all full."

"Oh I see."

He sat up and she could see that he was holding something. A large bottle of champagne from the wedding. "Fancy a drink, Molly?"

"Uhm… we really shouldn't have alcohol in here, Sherlock."

"Oh come on, Dr. Hooper. Live a little." He turned up the bottle and drank deeply. Obviously this had been going on for a while.

"Are you drunk?" she asked in disbelief.

He looked puzzled by her question and mulled it over for a while. "Am I? Hmm… I don't know." He patted the gurney beside him. "Come on, Dr. Hooper. Have a drink with me." He offered the bottle once more and with a shrug, Molly took it.

"Uggh… it's hot!" she exclaimed after a sip.

"I know. But if you drink it fast, then it kind of burns off the top layer of tastebuds." He took another draw from the bottle and set it down. "What'd you think of my speech, Lolly?" he slurred. "I mean… Mmmolly."

She nodded and patted his hand affectionately. "You did an _amazing_ job, Sherlock."

"I know," he replied with a chuckle. "Except for that part with the murder, it was a lovely wedding." He passed the bottle back to her. "You never did say why you were here. At the morgue, I mean. Not… like… why are you here in the world."

"Well…I thought you might… you know, _need_ someone. To talk to or keep you company." She took the bottle and had another long swallow, her eye twitching from the flavor. "Thought you might be feeling, I dunno…lonely?"

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Defective… de-_TEC-_tive. To be lonely would imply that you need companionship. I do not need companionship. Alone is what…" His voice trailed off and he looked around the room suspiciously. "Wait a minute! You had a date, Molly Hooper. Where is young Thomas? Did you leave him in the hall with some breadcrumbs to find his way here?" Sherlock burst into laughter and took the bottle from her again. "I'm sorry, Molly… he's…"

"An idiot." He nodded as he sucked down more champagne. "You know, I never noticed until you came back. Thanks for that." She jerked the bottle from his hands, looking down and realizing that it was nearly empty. As she tipped the bottle back to drain the last of the champagne, she realized her head was swimming. Funny, champagne always went to her head and she'd had her fair share at the wedding.

"You're welcome."

"How much have you had, Sherlock?" He gestured casually to the lab table where one bottle had already been discarded. "You drank that bottle by yourself?"

"I offered some to the cabbie, but he respectfully declined. All for the best, I suppose. He _was_ driving at the time." He sighed and lay down on the gurney again, resting his head on the cold steel headrest. "Come on, Molly. Lie down with me. Pretend to be dead."

"Uhm…"

"Come oooonnn…there's plenty of room." He scooted over a little, tossing the headrest aside. Molly looked around but finally shrugged and lay down beside him. "See… isn't that blissful? Quiet? Calm?" They lay there for a few minutes, neither speaking, just staring up at the ceiling. That is until she heard a soft snore.

"Sherlock?" She elbowed him.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed, a little louder than necessary. "So why are you here again, Lolly?"

"I dunno… you just seemed sad. I thought maybe I could help."

"And how does Tod—"

"Tom."

"Whatever. How does he feel about your running off to help me? I can tell he hates me already. You can see it. He always has this weird look on his face when I speak. I suppose it's only fair. I look ill whenever he speaks…so do you, incidentally."

"He went home with a migraine. Just after you left. He doesn't know I'm here."

"I thought you were going to break up with him."

Molly sighed. "I keep trying. But there's always interruptions and… I just really don't know what to say to him."

"Hmm…" Sherlock thought for a moment, steepling his fingertips over his face. "Tom. You're an idiot. Too boring for even someone as kind and forgiving as me to put up with. Off you go." He raised slightly and looked at Molly, his eyes sleepy with drunkenness. "How was that?"

"Terrible, Sherlock. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

"Oh. Well then I'm out of ideas." He flopped back down on the gurney and Molly winced, hearing his skull bounce off the steel. "Unless of course you'd like me to kill him for you. During the wedding, I actually worked out the perfect way…"

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry…well, on second thought, not really." He giggled to himself again. "Oh wait… are you keeping him around for sex?"

Molly gasped and felt herself turning red all over. Something about the way the word 'sex' dripped from the dip in those pouty lips of his just made her insides melt into a warm and viscous pool in the pit of her stomach. "That's… not appropriate for you to ask about."

Sherlock laughed loudly and immediately slapped a hand over his mouth. "Ssshh… we're in the morgue," he hissed. "We can't giggle."

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence again. At least, Molly was uncomfortable. Sherlock seemed to be having the time of his life, audibly counting the tiles in the ceiling. "I was lying, you know."

"Lying where?"

"A while back. When I said, you know… about me and Tom… having lots of sex. I was lying."

"I know," he sighed. "I'm Slurlock Holmes. I know _everything_."

"Then why didn't you say anything?"

"It was a terrifying thought and I was trying to block it out."

"The truth is, we weren't. Aren't. I mean, we tried… but…" She sighed again, not knowing how much of this she should be saying. After all, it was Sherlock. Of course, judging by the cloudy look in his eyes and the fact that he kept falling asleep, he probably wouldn't remember this conversation in the morning. "We tried but it was a disaster."

"How so?"

"Well… I guess… maybe my heart just wasn't in it."

Sherlock sat up, his nose crinkled in that disgustedly confused fashion. "It's true I'm no expert, Mols, but I didn't think your heart was the most important organ in that situation."

"Shut up…," Molly groaned. "It all started last summer…"

**OoOoOo**

_Everything was perfect. It had to be. Tonight was the night that Molly Hooper was finally going to shake off the shadow of Sherlock Holmes and get on with her life. She had everything planned, down to ground zero: the bed. Tom would come round at seven. Molly had made them a deliciously rich dinner with wine. Soft music, a fire in the hearth. She had even gone so far as to buy a new, sexy black cocktail dress to wear for the occasion. Tom would take one look at her and insist that they retire to the bedroom. Molly smirked. She'd thought of everything. The bed was made with new sheets and a velvet duvet a friend had given her ages ago. Another bottle of wine was chilling in a bucket on the nightstand and fresh roses adorned every available surface. She'd even banished Tobias the tabby to the attic for the night. Yes, after tonight, Sherlock Holmes would be a distant memory from an unhappy past. Let's ignore the fact that Tom looked just enough like him in the dark that she could pretend. Of course he wasn't clever or quick. In fact, every time he opened his mouth, Molly found herself rolling her eyes or bracing for some ridiculous opinion. But in the darkness of the pub or the shadows of the dance floor, she could pretend._

_When Tom arrived, he knew something must be up. The wine, the spicy sweet scent of the Crème Brulee that hung in the air, the way Molly had worn her hair down so that it fell in luscious Clairol waves to her shoulders. Every factor was conspiring to make a romantic evening that neither would forget. They ate with barely restrained brevity. Wine, starter, dinner, dessert—all of them just roadblocks to the main event. When Molly stood up, Tom couldn't contain himself anymore and swept her into his arms. They stumbled past the dining room chairs, over the cat toy that had escaped from the basket by the door and into Molly's bedroom. He didn't ask any questions as she quickly shut out the lights. She pushed him down on the bed, letting go of her mousey persona with the cover of darkness. Why be mousey? She was Molly Hooper: young, single Londoner. Accomplished doctor and tonight- sex goddess. Take that, Sherlock Holmes. Her fingernails made quick work of Tom's ill fitting button-up. His pale, freckled chest with the inexplicable hair patterns was hidden in the shadows, but her fingers could feel the gentle slope of bone beneath his skin. The bumps of his ribs. The… ok, so he was a shade thin. She climbed atop him, the hem of her sassy little cocktail dress riding up on her thighs. She hoped he could see the thin lace strap of her garter belt. He made a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as his fingertips found the smooth flesh of her thigh. She bent closer, kissing his mouth with a fervor she had only read about in tawdry romance novels. Since he wasn't going to, she grabbed his shoulders, rolling his body on top of hers. He chuckled softly and finally began to play along. His hands were everywhere. Clumsily he pawed at her chest, squeezing at each breast and biting at her nipples through the thin silk of her little black dress. _

_"Oh Molly… I've been waiting… so long for this…"_

_"Me too, darling," she sighed, her fingers pulling and fumbling with the button on his trousers. "Please… hurry."_

_He obeyed her command, sliding his palm slowly over her body. Down her side to her bare thigh and lower. Cautiously he let his fingertips wander along the inside until he found the lacy underwear that covered her moist, sticky sex. Molly gasped as he found his mark and eagerly groped for his own…_

"Meat dagger," Sherlock interrupted with an intoxicated giggle that bubbled out unexpectedly.

"Shut up."

_Their legs entwined, pressing their bodies against one another. She could feel him, his hardened manhood pushing insistently at her center. She moaned softly, letting her thigh fall to the side to receive him. And at the moment of entry, as his cock slid into the warm heat of her, Molly sighed against his ear. "Oh Sher…"_

**OoOoOo**

"I have never been so humiliated in my life," Molly finished, wishing there were some champagne left. "I said the wrong name. I actually said the wrong name. I mean, I thought that only happened on telly."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He simply went into his vest, producing a flask and unscrewing the top. "Here. I nicked this from John earlier. After that story he'd want you to have it." Molly took a swig from the flask and nearly choked. She sat up, coughing and flailing as the liquid burned her throat.

"My God… what is that?"

"Good isn't it?" he asked, taking his own swig. "Mmm… did you really say my name instead of Ted's?"

"Tom's."

"Whatever. Did you?"

"Yes." She shook her head, knowing that the only reason she was confessing was because he wouldn't remember tomorrow. "He got up and left immediately. Who can blame him? I suppose I would too. It took me three weeks to get him to go out with me again! Of course, I haven't tried to seduce him again, that's for sure."

"Good," Sherlock replied. "Very good, then."

"No, it isn't. I don't want to spend the rest of my life in a meaningful relationship with my showerhead, Sherlock." She crossed her arms over her chest, still lying flat and looking up at the ceiling. "What about you? No embarrassing sex stories?"

"No."

"None?"

"I'm the virgin, remember," Sherlock said, taking another swallow from the flask.

"I don't believe that," Molly said, jerking the flask from him. "Come on… I told mine."

Sherlock was silent. For a moment Molly thought he might have fallen asleep again, but then he chuckled softly. "Ok… well… I might have one. Picture it… "

**OoOoOo**

_Budapest. A year ago. Sherlock received the text while he was having a drink at a dingy little borozo. "You're not dead. Let's have dinner." One glance across the street and he saw her there at a café. Looking beautifully alive… and blonde for some reason. So the question was, continue his surveillance of the assassin with the body odor and the limp or catching up with an old friend. Sherlock rose, buttoning his jacket and crossing the street. After all, a guy with body odor and a limp should be easy to find._

_"So first I hear you're dead and then I hear you aren't. Can't you make up your mind, Mr. Holmes?" Irene Adler. The Woman. The distraction that occasionally turns up in his head wreaking havoc. For a moment he wondered if she was a hallucination. It wouldn't be uncommon for someone like him to have a complete mental breakdown. Of course when she rose from the table, rushing toward him and embracing him tightly before he could protest, he was pretty certain that she was real. To his surprise, he found himself hugging her back, enjoying the feel of her lithe frame against him. Her cheek brushed against his and she whispered in his ear. "Let's go someplace more… private."_

_It was electric. Knocking over tables and chairs, a little old lady and a totally innocent waiter, they made their way toward the back of the café where they were sure to find a toilet where they might properly express their joy at seeing one another after all this time. "Oh Sherlock… I'm so glad you're not dead," she purred, tugging at those luscious curls that she had been missing between her fingertips. "I was so worried." Their mouths crushed against one another as they fumbled with the doorknob. As they pushed their way in, an unsuspecting woman with an enormous diaper bag over her shoulder found herself and her baby jerked through the doorway and banished into the restaurant. She started to protest, but Irene slammed the door in her face. Turning around, she backed up against the door, the cool wood soothing her overheated skin. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this," she sighed. "I can hardly believe you're real."_

_"Believe it. Sherlock lives, baby."_

"Wait a minute," Molly interrupted. "You seriously did not say that."

Sherlock laughed and emptied the flask, tossing it to the ground carelessly. "No. I didn't. I'm not even sure any of this actually happened."

"Did you make all of this up?" Molly asked, sitting up on her elbows and looking down at him.

"Mmmm….mayyybe."

_Irene narrowed her eyes, reaching behind to pull her hair down. It fell carelessly around her shoulders as she shook it out. Sherlock's mouth watered, realizing that this time he'd never be able to resist her. Besides, if you couldn't have casual sex when you were dead, when could you have it? She came toward him, slowly unbuttoning her blouse until her pearlescent flesh was revealed, bit by delicious bit. "Death agrees with you, Mr. Holmes. Cheekbones in sparkling form…" She reached out, sliding her fingertips along his jawline, chin and across that generous lower lip. _

_And then she punched him square in the jaw. "You son of a bitch! I thought you were dead! I actually cried for you! I grieved!" Before he could reply, she launched herself at him, beating him about the head and neck._

**OoOoOo**

Molly nearly fell off the gurney laughing. "You got your arse handed to you by a girl!"

"She caught me off guard," Sherlock grumbled. "At least I knew her name."

After a while, their laughter faded and they lay there in silence once more. Sherlock sighed and laid his hand on top of Molly's. "Thank you, Lolly."

"For what?"

"For keeping me company." He sat up and she followed suit. As he slid down from the gurney he was unsteady on his feet and leaned on the table for support. "We better go." He began pulling his jacket on, his intoxication making it difficult to find the arm holes. "I know this thing had two arms when I came in."

Molly giggled and helped him get his arms into the coat. "There you are, you big baby."

He smiled warmly and cupped her face in his hands. Leaning in, he gave her a sloppy kiss on the mouth. "Do you want to go home with me, Molly Hooper?"

"What?!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: OK... you twisted my arm! Another chapter! I hope you like this one. Thanks for all the reads and reviews! It is very much appreciated. If I haven't sent you a personal message thanking you, I wil be. Thanks again! **

Don't coy play with me, Lolly. You heard me. Do you want to go home with me?" Sherlock said, fumbling with his scarf. After several attempts he threw the strip of cashmere down, heaving an exasperated sigh. "I mean, isn't that what people do after weddings?"

"Isn't _what_ what people do?" Molly asked, watching him trying to get it together. She had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing. She couldn't help it. Sherlock was normally so graceful and in control of his body, it was hilarious to see him stumbling around with no coordination.

"The wrong people going home together. Having drunken sex that they'll regret in the morning? I was informed that it was a tradition."

She gave a sideways glance and chewed on her lower lip. "Oh yeah? Who told you that?"

"Uhm… J… Janet… Jen… Purple dress. Madam Purple Dress? Whatever… it doesn't matter. She said that we were supposed to have sex. So let's go, Molly. Lolly. No, Molly was right."

Molly narrowed her eyes and balled her fists by her sides. She knew exactly who he was talking about. Mary's chief bridesmaid. The Irish girl with the childbearing hips. "Janine?"

Sherlock banged his fist on the table victoriously. "Yes! Her."

"I think perhaps she meant you and her. Not me and you," Molly replied darkly, pulling her own coat on.

"But I like you better, Lolly," he sighed. He staggered toward her, tripping over the edge of his shoe and landing on his knee in front of her. "Please, Molly. Come home with me? I don't want to be alone." Sherlock stared up at her with those wide eyes of ice, the alcohol haze clearing for a moment so that she could see the sadness there that he was trying to mask.

She sighed and nodded. "Get up, idiot," she grumbled, pulling him to his feet. "I suppose someone has to get you home." He wavered and wrapped his arm around her, leaning heavily against her frame and almost toppling them both. She grabbed his morning coat and tie on the way out, remembering to shut out the lights on their way.

**OoOoOo**

They almost didn't make it into the cab uninjured. The walk from the back entrance of Bart's to the street was uneventful but slow. To Molly's surprise, Sherlock kept his arm firmly around her waist and pulled in close. Despite his drunkenness he was warm and, she couldn't help but notice, smelled amazing. Most people, when they're as drunk as Sherlock was at this point, smelled like the inside of a pint glass, the alcohol seeping from their pores as they sweat. Sherlock, on the other hand, wasn't most people. The scent that emanated from his skin did have that sharp undertone of too much wine, but layered on top of that was the earthy, light scent of shampoo, the leathery, minty scent of his aftershave and just a little of the stale tobacco from where he'd sneaked a cigarette behind the church. Wasn't there a word for being sexually aroused by smells? Whatever it was, Molly had it in spades. But throwing caution to the wind while he was drunk could only lead to disaster. Right?

With minimal help from the cabbie, they made it into the cab. Sherlock immediately slumped against Molly, wrapping his arms around her waist and hugging her tightly. "You look so pretty today, Lol—Molly. Except for that bow. The bow's rubbish. But I like the yellow."

Before she could respond, her phone buzzed. "Balls," she sighed, reaching into her handbag and rooting around. Tom's number and that ridiculous picture of them from the football match flashed across her screen. Accept or ignore. The letters blared at her brightly in the back of the cab. If she ignored the call, he'd think there was something wrong. He might even come over to her flat, only to find that she wasn't there. Then, what if he went back to the reception. He'd see that she had gone and she was sure that a loose-lipped relative would be glad to tell him that she'd left right after he did. The phone buzzed again like an angry bee in her hand. She'd better get it. "Hello?"

"Molly?" Tom's voice was loud and obnoxious, even through the phone. "Is that you?"

She rolled her eyes. Who else would it be? "Oh hello, darling. Are you feeling better?"

"A little. I was wondering if you'd left the reception yet. Maybe I could come over?"

Uggh… even with a migraine he wanted to come over, watch some telly and paw at her clumsily on the couch while she thought of excuses not to sleep with him. "I don't think so, Tom… it's a bit late. I uhm… I had to help a friend that's a little worse for wear get home."

"It's Holmes, isn't it?" Molly tried to read his voice. He sounded a bit amused and somewhat smug, thinking that he'd been right before about Sherlock being drunk during the dinner. But there was something else. A terse, borderline angry tone that suggested jealousy. "You're taking that asshole home, aren't you?"

"Tom… I…" Should she tell him the truth or make up some silly lie about one of the bridesmaids? Or maybe Greg. Molly was a terrible liar and everyone, even a moron like Tom, could figure out when she was doing it. "I…I couldn't just leave him like that."

There was a long pause and she could hear Tom breathing loudly through his nose. It was this thing he did when he was pissed off. "This is so typical of you, Molly."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I could be hit by a bus and dragged down the Strand and you'd barely bat an eyelash, but let that arrogant, mop-headed git get a paper cut and you're right there to pick up the pieces!"

"Tom, that's not true," she sighed, throwing her purse down into the floorboards of the cab and leaning back against the seat. Sherlock shifted and when she cast a glance his way she could see that he had nodded off. "He's just a friend."

"Oh yeah? He doesn't act like it. He's just using you, Molly! The only time he's ever nice to you is when he wants something!"

"It isn't like that—" she said, her voice quavering on the edge of tears. This was an argument they had over and over.

"You just look like a fool, Molly! And what's worse is you make _me_ look like a fool too!"

"Tom… please, I…"

"You're just… an idiot for even trying to be his friend! But I'm right here! I'm trying to love you and you don't give a shit! He's never going to love you, Molly! Freaks like him aren't capable of love!"

"Stop it!" she cried, practically screaming into the phone. His words were like an injection of poison into her brain and she couldn't stop the acidic tears from rolling down. Soon she'd be shuddering with big ugly sobs that left her with a red nose and gooey eye makeup. "You don't know anything about it!"

Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed her phone and held it out of her reach as she tried to take it back. So he _had_ been listening. "Look, Tim…"

"Tom!"

"Whatever. Look, I couldn't hear your end of the conversation and honestly, I don't care. I'm not in the habit, per se, of threatening the lives of near strangers. Well ok, maybe on occasion, but I don't make a _habit_ of it. I think you should know that I wasn't kidding about plotting how I'd kill people as a mental exercise. I have yours pretty flawlessly arranged in my head. You should further know that I am, actually, a diagnosed sociopath. In my defense, I'm working on it. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I would think nothing of throwing someone repeatedly out of a window for touching my landlady. Can you _imagine _what I'd do to someone who touched my pathologist?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. At any rate, while I'm pretty damned intoxicated right now, I won't be forever. And just know that if you make Molly cry in my presence ever again, I will hunt you down like a rabid dog, cut you up into little pieces and brew a tea from your remains. Which I will relish each and every morning until every trace of you is gone. Thank you and goodbye, Tom." And with that, he threw Molly's phone out of the car window.

Molly sat up, watching as her phone bounced down the street and was promptly run over by a double-decker bus. "Sherlock. That was my phone."

"Yes."

"You destroyed my phone."

"Yes. Wow, you really aren't as thought as I drunk you were." He tilted his head back and stretched out along the seat, his arm thrown over the back. As the cab ran over a pothole, the car lurched, shoving Molly against his side with the force of the shockwave. He instinctively put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. At first she was tense, but his warmth was so nice. So comforting. She snuggled into him and lay her head on his shoulder, drying her tears with the scratchy wool of his coat.

**OoOoOo**

When they arrived at Baker Street, Molly's eyes had grown heavy. Sherlock, amazingly was still awake. At least, awake enough to tell the cabbie to stop. For a moment she thought he might have sobered up, but watching him negotiate the sidewalk and fumble for his keys, she thought better of it. He was still, most definitely impaired. Once he found the right key, he tried pushing it into the lock on the front door, but only succeeded in scratching at the doorframe. "My God… my key doesn't work." He started to bang on the door.

"Shush… do you want to wake up the whole neighborhood?" Molly sighed.

"No. Just Mrs. Hudson. She's my landkeeper, not my houselady." Molly giggled at the reversal and placed her hand over his, helping him to slide the key into the keyhole.

"Let's hope you're better at this than you seem," she joked, pushing the door open with her shoulder. He followed her inside, if one could call it that. It was more of a stumbling into her so they both fell inside. "Is Mrs. Hudson here?" Molly whispered. "It's pretty late. Surely she's not still at the reception."

"Could be. She's a party animal." He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Hudson!" he bellowed.

"Sherlock! Ssshh!" she hissed, clapping her hand over his mouth. "Don't wake her if she is here."

"Don't be ridiculous. Maybe she has tea and biscuits!" he gasped.

Molly was giggling, trying to keep him from shouting again or losing her footing as he tried to push past her. "Sherlock…" she said. "Don't…" She tripped over his shoe and grabbed onto him for support. Given that he was barely ambulatory, they both took a header into the stairwell, Molly breaking her fall on his body. "Oof…" she grunted. "Are you okay?"

He giggled again. "I'm fine. Perfectly fine. I'm absolutely fine. How are you?"

Molly stared down at him. Even in the shadows with his eyes cloudy with barely concealed sadness and his cheeks flushed with too much drink, he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"For what?" he asked, one of his eyes blinking slowly while the other stared.

"For never ceasing to amaze me."

He grinned. "I am amazing."

"Most of the time, yes. And for being my hero."

He looked puzzled as he tried to process her words. "Molly…"

"Yeah?"

"Do you promise to stay with me?"

"Of course. I said I'd stay the night with you."

His head lolled back and forth as if he were considering something. "Not just the night. I mean, I don't want you to leave. Of course, you're going to leave. You're going to marry Tom and then you'll leave just like John."

Molly felt her heart break just a little for Sherlock. Finally, here in the dark, lying akimbo on the stairs, he showed her his heart. He lifted the iron scales back and left it exposed for just a moment. "Of course no one's leaving you, silly. Just because John and Mary got married doesn't mean that they'll leave you behind." She brushed her fingertips through the stray curls that lit on his forehead. "And I'm… I'm not going to marry Tom."

"You're not?"

"No, I told you I wasn't. And after that phone call, I doubt he'll want to marry me anyway."

"Look on the bright side. He can't call you back." Sherlock giggled and embraced her tightly as they lay there on the stairs. "My Molly."

She giggled. "Oh my darling… you really are pissed aren't you?"

"Maybe," he replied. "You know," he murmured, staring lazily into her eyes. "I've always wanted to see you like this. From underneath, looking up at your face. And it's just as I thought…"

"Mmm?"

He heaved a heavy groan as the corner of the step dug into his back. "You're beautiful, Molly. I'm sorry I never told you."

Molly chewed on her lower lip, worrying it until it was practically swollen. "It's ok, Sherlock. I know you're an idiot."

"I am. I should have told you every day, Molly. And now… it's too late."

Molly leaned in, her lips brushing across the crest of his cheekbone as she spoke. "I'm always late," she whispered. As he arched his neck to look up at her, their noses bumped and then their mouths were moving slowly against one another. Soft and unsure at first, barely touching with a gentle caress, then more insistent. He kissed her the way she'd always imagined he would: one hand resting at the curve of her jaw and the other tangled in her hair, twisting the tiny waves at the base of her skull with those long, sinuous fingers. Even intoxicated, his instincts were clear. He knew exactly how to move his teeth and tongue against her lips, teasing her mouth open so that he could slowly invade. Soon, every breath she took was his and she felt lightheaded when he inhaled, stealing her soul into himself.

"Is it too late, Molly?" he asked, breaking the kiss. He sat up slowly, guiding them to their feet. He took her hand and ascended the stairs, pulling her along and careful not to stumble backward. They emerged from the stairwell and into the flat. 221 B that she knew so well suddenly seemed strange. Different. There were the usual Sherlock-y things lying around, but there was warmth. They stood there, awkwardly looking everywhere except at one another. Molly attempted to unbutton her coat, but her fingers didn't seem to work the way she wanted, getting tangled in the fabric. Her brain was still scrambled by his kiss and she realized that most of her problem was that she wanted more. Needed more. She hung her coat on the hook by the door, but Sherlock just threw his down.

"Well," Molly sighed. "Here we are."

He nodded and she could see that he was trying to keep it together. His eyes still had that lazy quality and he was unsteady on his feet as he came toward her. Still drunk enough that she shouldn't let this happen. It was possible he'd never remember any of this in the morning. But she would. Sherlock grabbed her by the scarf still hanging around her neck and pulled her toward him. All thinking aside, she let him kiss her again and all he reluctance dissolved. Their fingers tangled in one another's clothing and they could only tug and pull at fabric, desperately trying to free their overheated skin from the oppressive covering. The sharp, fermented taste of the champagne lingered on his tongue and it only served to arouse Molly further and she surprised herself, tearing at his crisp white shirt and sending the buttons flying.

"Shit… this shirt was expensive, Molly," he grumbled against her mouth.

"Sorry," she growled back, pushing him down the hall toward the bedroom. He laughed at her impatience and finished tossing the shirt to the floor, flapping his arms until the sleeves fell away. "Wow… death did agree with you, Sherlock." Her eyes slid along the complicated landscape of his musculature, taking in every shadow and curve. Reaching out with a tentative hand, she ran her fingertips over his skin. There were rough places where a scar or bruise blemished the otherwise perfect canvas of flesh. These were the marks of his time away and her chest tightened. What sort of horrors had he subjected himself to during that two year absence? She had not expected this. Her fantasies of Sherlock had never included seeing this raw humanness that he kept so carefully hidden. It made her heart swell with love for him and she wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against his bare back. She just wanted to offer him the warmth of her body and the reassurance of her caress.

He turned in her embrace and kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyes and finally her lips once more. His fingertips wandered to the zipper at the top of her dress and he tugged at it insistently. After a few more attempts, he broke the kiss and growled. "What the fuck is wrong with this thing?" He turned her around roughly and she giggled as he fiddled with the zipper.

"Just… straighten it. It's probably just caught in…"

_Riiippp_.

"Oh… shit. Sorry, Molly."

She giggled and pushed him toward the bed. He stumbled over a pair of shoes and got tangled up in his dressing gown that still lay on the floor from the morning. He fell onto the bed with a bounce that made him giggle at his own drunken clumsiness. The lights were on and suddenly Molly felt self-conscious. She reached for the lamp when Sherlock protested. "Nooo… leave them on. I want to see you, Molly. Despite popular opinion, I do in fact know where to look."

She could feel the blush clear down to her toes. "Uhm… ok…" Her dress was barely hanging on to her shoulders since he'd ripped the back almost completely out of it. All she had to do was shrug a little and it fell down to her waist where the fabric hugged her hips. She pushed it down further until it was a puddle of silk at her feet. When she stepped out of it, she had to stop herself from crossing her arms over her chest. She wore a matching set of underthings in the same sunny yellow as her dress. Nothing special or particularly sexy. After all, she hadn't expected this.

Finally, she couldn't stand it anymore and climbed into the bed beside Sherlock. Let him finish off the unveiling, as it were. He lay beside her, propped on one elbow and looking down into her face. Dear God, just looking at him was like looking into the face of God for poor, lovesick Molly Hooper. Cloudy, drunken eyes aside. Messy hair notwithstanding. He was the angel and the demon in her darkest fantasies. He hardly seemed real. She kept thinking that any moment she'd wake up, having fallen asleep at the table during the reception. "Well…" she whispered after a moment. "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

For once, Sherlock Holmes was speechless. He simply nodded and answered her question. His hands slid along her collarbone and down her arms where he grasped her wrist, pulling it around his neck as their kiss went on and on. Molly found herself pressing her body against his impatiently. He kissed along her jawline and down the slope of her neck. Molly panted softly, shuddering as the ends of his curls tickled the sensitive skin of her chest. His palm was rough as it slid over her breast, closing on the center and cradling it gently.

And then he was still.

She lay there a moment, eyes closed, shivering with anticipation. The frantic thought occurred that she might actually fly to pieces with a mind-blowing orgasm as soon as his lips brushed across the nipple that strained painfully against the lace of her bra. She waited and then heard a soft sound. Like a sigh or a snore. "Sherlock?"

He didn't answer. The champagne had finally caught up.


End file.
